Metro: Silent Moscow
by Bloody Mourning
Summary: The tunnels of Moscow begin to grow quiet, and yet something begins to stir in this dead world, bringing forth a plethora of things the people of the Metro are not yet ready for. It contains Monster Musume, Gate, And Monster Girl Encyclopedia. (All are happening at the same time-ish.)
1. Prologue

So, I Haven't the faintest clue what sort of events unfolded and what neurons fired off at the right time in my brain that provoked me to write this crackfic, if it can even be called that. So far a few reasons were 1, curiosity, 2, Sadness that some of the best franchises out there have little to no crossover fanfiction, and three, why the hell not dabble in some fandoms that i may or may not know about.Anyways onwards to the story, we shall go! I'd like all of you to be brutal with the reviews, or not, do as you please.

Note Ov- actually, The story will be T for now but may evolve into M territory later, and as such you will be warned if anything kinky starts to go on

The remnants of the world lay quiet now. In the old days of Russia's Moscow, you could see children and their families going out for a walk, simply running a small errand or for no discernible reason other than that the weather was nice that day. Then the atom bomb's came in 2013, what had first started as a small nuclear weapons launch between the United States and the Arab's proceeded to snowball into what the scientists and thinkers of the time called Mutually Assured Destruction, Mad, for short, because you'd have to be mad in order to even think of firing a single nuke in an era where almost every nation had thousandsThe surface had been left terribly irradiated, glassed and unfit to breathe. and people fled to the metro tunnels in hopes of being able to escape the nuclear devastation above ground by fleeing to the world below it in the Moscow Metro. With the surface poisoned and likely unfit to breathe for decades there was essentially no hope for the survivors off the start, with some finding solace in the fickle desire that someday their children or their children's grand-children could come up to the surface without gas masks.

It was not soon after the nuclear warfare that mutants had come around, crawling among the surface and worming their way into the Metro tunnels, slaughtering those who had survived both the fallout and the attempts of hapless people attempting to maintain order in this new world.

It was futile to attempt to keep humanity together as even the war could not kill the shadow that haunted it, Fascism, The Fourth Reich, a group that had sprung up almost overnight that killed anyone it deemed genetically impure, wanting to be free of mutations caused by radioactivity and a purely Russian Metro.

Then there was the Red Line, A practical USSR Copycat of sorts that followed the nations old communist regime, ever at a raging war with the Fourth Reich, always keeping those who lived in Red Line occupied stations under their watchful eye, lest they are accused of being some sort of spy and shot.

Then there was the Hanseatic League or Hanza for short. Traders and merchants turned government, while they were generally better all around than the Red Line or the Fourth Reich, they only helped in any endeavor that either saved their skin or filled the group's pockets with ammo and were perpetually at conflict against both the Red Line and the Fourth Reich. A disturbing reality they lived in now, using military-grade bullets for currency since paper money had lost all of its value. You could be paying with the lives of someone, or your own if you thought about it. A single bullet could be a life killed or saved. A hundred grams of tea, five lives. Sausage would be a mere trifle, fifteen lives. A nice leather coat? Well, it's your lucky day! It's on sale! Not four-hundred, but just two-hundred and fifty

What a sad world it is for the survivors, the only beacon of hope in the Metro being the Rangers of the Spartan Order. A noble group who protected everyone against whatever was out there in this harsh new world of theirs, be it man or mutant. Such things come at a high cost, their numbers dwindle slowly by the day.


	2. Chapter 1

It has been years since the bombs dropped, and maybe a year or so after the harassment of The Dark Ones, near-invincible creatures with telekinetic and psychopathic abilities. Fortunately, it seemed, that the rangers had been there to stop the Dark Ones in their path with the remaining missiles left behind at a bunker known as D6. How unfortunate that civilians were rarely let inside on a whim, it could have been a second home to the denizens of the metro.

Life in Kuznetsky Most was bleak. Kuznetsky Most, otherwise known as Armory Station for being the major supplier and distributor of weaponry and ammunition across the Metro, was under complete Red Line control. Sure the local militia at the station stood guard at the post outside, but on the inside, you'd see nothing but the strong presence of the Red Line, Red Army posters and paraphernalia practically littered the station, as well as cages of people who would be forced to manufacture more munitions and guns. Those in the cages were usually attempted fugitives, and prisoners.

Worst still were the frequent raids and searches on everybody's homes, having a decent reputation helped even if by the tiniest margin. Still, it was better to have the Red Line soldiers _try_ to be gentle and tidy when rifling through your belongings.

His name was Dante Estoli, just about the only Hispanic man in the whole wide Metro for all he cared. A tiny speck of ink in a sea of white would be the best way to describe him, his family and him went to Moscow for a simple tourist trip, a one week stay and then head home to America.

That was before the bombs dropped, that was when he was just a small lad, no older than twelve or so. That would make him.. Twenty Three? Around that age he was now, he had a smoothed angular face and somewhat chubby cheeks, courtesy of his deceased father. His hands were a bit on the thin side and perfect for anything that required fine motor skills, courtesy of his mother. He still wore his now faded blue long sleeve shirt from all those years ago, just that years of patching it up and tailoring it has made it look like strong patchwork made to fit around only him, and the only "new" clothing on him were some shoes plated with metal, and some sweatpants, equally as plated. He had a fascination with science and medicine, as well as graphic design and 3D modeling, and secretly a passion for designing crude weapons, like guns.

Being a marine biologist and designer was likely out of the window years ago, same with 3D modeling on a proper computer that had any software, to begin with. The only modern-day tech he had on him was a USB drive with to best of his memory told him that it had an old, heavily modified game and some codes he used daily.

Good luck trying to use that in the apocalypse.

He always kept the piece of the old world on him, hidden somewhere that always changed so that the Red Line searches would never find it. But if his plan worked he would never have to worry about the dictatorship that was being in occupied territory, he only hoped they had no bases on the surface and that he would run into a friendly face like the Spartans instead of a Nazi combatant.

Twenty-four minutes total in 4 filters, a "reinforced" gas mask (which just had a layer of clear resin over the glass.)

40 shotgun shells with at least twenty more empty, as well as his Ubinoik, or Shambler as some called it, a combat shotgun whose inner workings were forged from kitchen parts and ingenuity.

A small backpack, a single molotov cocktail, and four medkits.

Those who went out on the surface were called Stalker's and brought things back to the Metro in exchange for simple goods such as ammo or medical supplies.

This would be his first trek out to the world since the bombings if he wasn't killed on the way out. He quietly left his room with a dummy in his place made from pillows and some of his shaved hair woven together like a wig and hid in a ditch in the concrete ground where the tracks for little wagons could embark and depart.

Now it was a waiting game, and mere luck would decide if he was taken closer to his goal or to the frontlines of combat depending on what trolley appeared with what destination in mind..


	3. Chapter 2

He had hidden in a small wooden crate, now feeling a bit fortunate for his height and not being one of those 6-foot folk's who he occasionally saw every now and then. Actually, how tall was he now? Definitely taller than 4 feet, but he supposed his added flexibility helped him hide in the said crate. Now was not the time to think, it was time to hurry as he began hearing something heavy rolling down the rails above him. His head poked out to take a cautionary look at what he saw.

It was a trolly for sure, and people were disembarking it. He couldn't see anything but boots and shoes, which he hoped weren't soldier's. If they were it was a high chance that he would end up on the front lines, and he was nothing against several battallions of trained troops. Fortunately, it seemed the trolly or whatever it was had a storage compartment that he could reach if he tried hard enough, he just had to hope it didn't give away due to his weight either during his ride or while he tried to get on.

He jumped once, grabbing onto a piece of sturdy wood board that made up the storage compartment, taking his time to pull himself up and into it praying it didn't break along the way. He was glad he could fit his body in the compartment, while he wasn't all that beefy he certainly didn't want to get himself stuck or realize that he didn't fit because the longer he stuck around the higher chance that someone noticed he was gone.  
Now that his ticket out of here was partially secured he just needed to wait again, hope nobody needed to board any luggage in the compartment...

Shit, he should have waited longer, this could have totally backfired on him and would end terribly if someone needed to put anything in his hiding space. He couldn't back out now, his heart pounded in his chest, what if they caught him as he tried to exit this poorly planned escape plan?  
He heard a yell, and it took a great amount of will to not jump or jerk his body in reaction, it seemed nobody noticed him yet, which meant that yell was more of an "All aboard" yell.

Hopefully.

He heard the wood above him creak as heavy footsteps pounded above him, people were definitely boarding now, and nobody packed anything in his hiding spot yet. Just how long till his luck ran out? No matter, he had a duty to see this through now as the jury-rigged gas motor that powered the trolly groaned and gurgled as it started up, spinning the axles of the wheels and sending them along their way on the tracks..


	4. Chapter 3

The carrier had been riding the rails for a few minutes now, letting out loud yet smooth hums of steel rolling upon iron, the only real source of light in the Metro tunnels was them, which could make them a prime target for any nosalises that decided to burrow out and find them.

Nosalises were like massive naked molerats, looking all wrinkly and generally displeasing. These were one of the first mutants to be born from the ashes of nuclear fallout and sometimes left massive holes in the ground where if one were unlucky enough to fall in, it would be likely one would never be seen again.  
That, and the beasts were also little shits, some of them had tougher skin than others, making them like ammo sponges in a sense. Shotguns were great up close, but if you wanted to do some substantive damage to their dense skin from far off you'd be better off with a revolver, or a rifle, or any semi-accurate gun for that matter.

Dante felt his heart stop dead in its tracks when he had the sudden urge to sneeze. Now, of all the times in the world, his body just felt it had to sneeze, and as if to add insult to injury he felt like he needed to go to the bathroom too. He could hold _that_ in, but a sneeze was harder? What did people do to stop themselves from sneezing? In a quick and last-ditch effort to not be caught after coming so close he exhaled sharply yet quietly, and inhaled before pinching his nose sealed tight.

Just how much longer would he have to endure this anxiety of essentially being trapped between either falling out or being discovered by Red Line soldiers, if they were soldiers anyways. All he could see were the faint creaks of light slicing through the shadows of people that reflected on the smooth concrete of the tunnels. Sure those tunnel walls looked immaculate at a glance, but taking a closer look would show anyone the severe misunderstanding that first glance gave them, the walls were all scratched up or scarred with blemishes or bullet holes caused by whatever battle had happened, either between mutant or human. Not like it made much of a difference what you were in this time, you'd likely be shot either way by a jittery passerby.

After a minute of waiting, he no longer felt the pressure that was steadily rising in his nostrils, but now he felt the gravity of his chest as he was running out of viable oxygen in his lungs, exhaling softly before greedily inhaling, forgetting that he was supposed to be quiet.

He just hoped they hadn't heard him, but the soft chat above them seemed to confirm they hadn't noticed him yet. Dante thought about whether or not he _should_ listen in on the conversation, but he decided to hear idly, just in case anything interesting popped up in the soft murmurs of muffled voices above him. There was little news to listen to that the voices above spoke about, often just another repeat of the Nazis attempting to invade some Red Line controlled station or independent station that the communist group had an eye on. The only somewhat interesting bit of news that had piqued his interest was about the Skaven Stations, something about the tunnel's in them having become too dangerous and the stations at under the control of the _Skaven Station Commonwealth _could fall. This eavesdropping session was quickly put to the back of his mind as he felt the vehicle take a turn. Whether it was left or right, he didn't know and he would never know until the trolly reached its destination.

If it went right, he could end up stuck in the Ring Line, an entire section of stations controlled by the _Hanza, _meaning he'd have to go on a wild adventure through the Ring Line to find a way up to the surface, and with no way to safely sleep in those long, winding tunnels there was a strong probability of having his throat ripped out by some mutant. If the vehicle went left he could completely bypass all that running and hopefully manage to be dropped off safely at Polis..

Hopefully.

**And that concludes chapter 4 of this crack fic! As a quick side-note i will be using both monsters from the Monster Girl Encyclopedia and Monster Musume (My Daily Life With A Monster Girl), just tweaked so that they were in line with the story and universe.**

**Toodaloo!**


	5. Chapter 4

So, now he simply just had to wait and see what direction the trolley was headed now, left or right.

And Dante really hated waiting games like these, patience was never really his specialty. Whenever something broke and he felt like he could fix it up as if it were new again he'd do it without a single doubt in his mind. Sometime's this desire to finish things on the spot hurt him, his hands were pockmarked with faded burn's from his old soldering iron that he had back before the war. Just how many things had he tried to make using that old thing? He could make a short list while he waited for them to reach their destination since the hubbub above him devolved into some mindless drivel.

Let's see... He had to re-solder the charging port on his tablet and did it just about the same day all the parts needed to do so arrived.

Lacking a stick welder he soldered two aluminum cans together in an attempt to create an anti-virus mask when there was a concern of some sort of spreading sickness, though it was mostly a learning experience for him.

Some stray electrical bits fell off a circuit board, so he soldered those back together.

His most favorite memory of that old soldering iron was when he had read about something called a "coilgun", or was it a railgun? Either way, he had to solder a lot of copper cables and a lot of capacitors that he scrapped from single-use cameras to get the thing to push the metal pellet he put into the pen that acted as a makeshift barrel.

He'd burnt himself a lot over the year's hadn't he? Whether it was working on some secret project or a project in broad daylight, he had gotten some sort of burn.

Then he felt himself fall, the wood beneath him breaking under him as it took another sharp turn, leaving him in the center of a pitch-black tunnel. It was unlikely all of his things were scattered since he kept them on him, but he would prefer to wait until the trolly was entirely out of view before he began hurriedly picking up whatever he felt could be useful. A spare mask filter? That's his now. A 5 round stripper clip of military grade rounds? His too. An extra shotgun shell? Best take it.

Then he found a lighter. Shit, did he even pack a flashlight? He was absolutely screwed if a pack of nosalises found him in this darkness. Wherever those red's were going he wanted nothing of it, especially if it leads him to another Red Line controlled station. So, with his mindset, he decided to continue running quickly down the left path of the tunnel instead of chasing after the trolley. The thought of the trolley's crew returning to get their things crossed his mind, only increasing the intensity of which he ran.

He hadn't fallen down in the darkness, which was surprising considering his bad night vision and decided to come to a full stop before testing the lighter he had _acquired_. A tiny shower of contained sparks and a second more he had some amount of light coming from the small flame from the lighter in his hands. Erring on the side of caution he felt it in his best interests to hold his gun, maybe it was instinct, or just because simply holding him made him feel a bit more secure in the almost impossibly wide metro tunnels. Impossible for the denizens of the Metro now anyways, they had not enough resources or the proper technology and manpower to rebuild any collapsed tunnels, or make new ones.

The amount of fuel for this lighter was unknown to him, and he wanted to preserve said fuel, only lighting his way for a few seconds to see any upcoming obstacles and whatever else that might be down here with him. The only "grenade" he had on him was a Molotov cocktail, a glass bottle filled with gasoline or whatever flammable liquid you have on hand.

He mentally facepalmed in the sudden realization that to use one, you needed to light it on fire and then throw it. If he ever needed to use it before he _found_ this lighter, it would be entirely obsolete, completely useless.

* * *

Dante's steady sprint had steadily devolved to a jog, and then to him falling over and wheezing for breath. He had no idea if it was because he hit a toxic air pocket or not, or if it was just him simply being exhausted. No matter the cause he put his mask on and the filter he had stolen when he fell out, he'd been pushing his lungs to his limits as well as his legs. Was he breathing so hard because of his birth defect? He could hear his heart pounding deafeningly in his chest, at least he didn't have diabetes yet. While doctors had been able to create insulin, it was always in short supply, expensive as hell and in somewhat low yet effective quality due to being made from pig pancreases.

But given the average diet of Metro civilians, vitamin and nutrient deficiencies were likely high in numbers among the average population. Not much fertile soil in the Metro for farming.

Actually, he decided he should stop thinking and start crawling his tired, outta shape ass to what was hopefully the direction of Polis, the realization that he was lucky to have few health problems in this hellish new world

He could see some light in the distance, bouncing around on the concrete walls. Polis, hopefully anyways!

That glorious hermetically sealed gate made from welded steel came into view, he was so close now to freedom, to do as he finally pleased, and to investigate the new rumors.. Word on "the streets" was that an army of men dressed in medieval gear attempted to attack Polis, more of a slaughter than a battle then anything else. The people who were attacking weren't Russians, or any recognizable ethnicity.

Of course that is if he managed to survive whatever could be heard behind him clawing and tearing its way through the dirt.


	6. Chapter 5

Of course, it wasn't the fucking Red Line he was so worried about, he put them as his number one threat and almost completely forgot about the real threat.

_Mutants._

While he had been dashing, crawling and hauling himself along the tunnel all while dry heaving in his gas mask, he had entirely overlooked just how much of a ruckus he must have caused now that he heard those damn nosalises clawing their way towards the disturbance in the quiet tunnels. And that disturbance was him.

He rolled onto his side and kicked his way further along as he struggled to get the strength in his legs to get up so he could at least have his back on the airlock which would hopefully open any second now.

Any second now...

Shit, welp, it appeared his luck had finally run out. He released a few of the empty spring-loaded clamps that held the shells in place to jam a new one into it. He had. Like what, three shells pre-loaded? Just needed to that exact motion without getting pinched even faster three more times before the fucking mutants come and tear you a new one~!

He heard them climbing along the tunnels, that wretched sound echoing its way into his ears. After much relief, he got himself to finally get the fuck up, and aim down the sights of the gun. Sure it was a generally inaccurate gun in the sense precision kills did not exist as part of its nature, but he sure as hell wasn't gonna decrease the odds of hitting something that would soon try and rip him to pieces. He had a very small amount of light, barely enough to illuminate anything but a foot or three beyond the metal gate, and it wasn't like there was anything he could use as fuel...

Well, apart from a moldy corpse from something most definitely not human in nature judging by the general shape of the head. And tattered scraps of singed cloth on the floor.

He needed light, that damn lighter was giving him an itchy pyromaniac of a thumb, and there was some perfectly good if albeit questionable fuel for him to use that wasn't his precious molotov cocktail. So without much thought, he dipped the singed cloth in some gasoline from his opened and then resealed molotov cocktail, threw onto everything else and set it on fire.

Let there be light!

And hopefully a couple of extra guns backing him up soon.

He then had to resist the urge to start releasing the few contents of his bowels as his eyes grew wide. There was only a group of five, and likely many more on the way by the sounds of it. Thinking quickly he fired at the one in the back, a ball punching right into its eye and brain with many more pellets hitting the rest of its body. It fell over and began bleeding on the ground, hopefully, it died. There were two more that were savagely clawing and snarling wetly at him that were getting a bit too close for comfort, aiming at the head and general center of mass on both before firing, whipping his gun around like crazy and firing another round of buckshot at an approaching mutant, hearing its skull shatter and splash blood and gray matter up into the air, fortunately away from him.

Four down and god knows how many more on the way. But of course, he neglected to shoot at the fifth one, thinking maybe a pellet or three got it good in the neck or something. But of course, that was completely wrong as he was suddenly tackled by it, reminding him of the times his eldest brother's dog jumped on him and he had to just about fight the thing off of him. Most he could do is keep it's mouth away from his head, he still had his hand on his gun and aimed it at its chest, or somewhere under it, and prayed he wasn't nicked by any stray shot, followed by hearing and seeing its torso explode at an angle, likely dead or bleeding out he just rolled it's body off of him, feeling heavier than it was in life. Or maybe he was just feeling the exhaustion get to him, either way, the impatience, and dread that the people behind the gate wouldn't appear were just killing him and eating him up inside.

"Hello! Is anyone in there?! I could use some help!" He spoke, raising his voice gradually as he spoke in first Russian, then English, then Spanish. Russian was one of the new languages he had learned in order to survive in the Metro. Knowing Spanish made it just a tad easier, were it not for the stupid font they insisted on writing in.

"Open the fucking gate!" He screamed this time, seeing one rear it's ugly head before starting to run at him with full speed ahead. With all this gore and smoke and burning flesh he was glad he kept his mask on, he didn't want to smell any of that shit. But maybe the mask was muffling his voice, but it sure as hell didn't muffle any gunshots.

He loaded a single shell, aimed and squeezed the trigger in a swift movement. Safe for a minute he began loading shells back into the clamps, occasionally glancing at a relatively unharmed casing and picking it up in case it was fit to be re-used or sold for scrap to a smith or something. He only picked up another empty three before deciding to reload and that staying alive was more important, loading in another two shells with his gun now at maximum capacity reached. Nudging a dead body an iota closer to the blazing flames nearby he took aim again as more showed up. He shot the spine of one that was trying to flank him, and then the head of another mutant at his side before shooting one dead on without aiming that was about to lunge him, sidestepping with the dead body just grazing him.

With just three shells left in the gun, he loaded another three into its clamps. He was only grateful that despite how unreliable these guns could be, at least they could be reloaded faster than its double-barrel or single-shot variants.

He burnt through like what, five, plus three mutants equals... Eight! Eight shells and all because he didn't miss a single shot!

Dante slung his mask off and screamed at the top of his lungs, "You fucking bitch! Let me in already assholes! Are you all deaf! HELP ME!" and as if though to add insult to injury more appeared, nine more mutants were trying to circle him to end his existence. Panicking he fired two shells at the mutants, one on his left side and the other at his right. He heard one leap into the air, and he twirled his body in a circular motion. He didn't want to try to get out of the way by moving straight into the claws of another awaiting mutant, so just spin to win. He fired once in the air and two times more at mutants at his sides before he heard the dreaded _clunk_.

A misfire. His gun barrel turned a hot orange color, no wonder the thing misfired, it's fucking jammed now! At this moment because it overheated!

Then he heard the growling of steel grinding against steel as that great metal gate began to open, light pouring behind it and some soldier's Polis forces! Moscow Rangers! Holy shit was he glad that they showed up, but next time they could arrive earlier, no?

He was practically shoved behind the safety of that great steel door before a man clad in thick armor came out, a pump sprayed burning fuel and flame everywhere from the muzzle of the man's weapon. A makeshift flamethrower, albeit of better quality so as to not explode in one's face. This was no longer his problem, he knew he was safe as he saw the airlock seal shut tightly with all those mutants being kept at bay because of the display, he sighed and he was just so fucking tired.

Dante saw that the little indent in between some houses looked mighty comfy and inviting, and without much effort he slumped snuggly in between the two buildings and passed out from exhaustion, finally getting some much-deserved rest.


	7. Chapter 6

Two Polis guards stood by the gate, hearing the nosalises slam their bodies against that solid metal door. No way in through that thing, it was a solid foot thick, you'd need something extremely powerful, stronger than homemade plastic explosive or a shoddy rocket made by some high-mileage adrenaline junkie trying to be useful in this hellish new world. One was just a smidgen on the shorter side, a bit lean and young-looking. Fit like a mule by today's standards. The other one was armed with a turned-off Flamer, it's metal spout still warm to the touch and shined a blue finish from the sheer constant of heat that almost never let rust settle in it, both of which gave confused and inquisitive looks to one another, and then to the man who had passed out in a corner, almost as if though silently arguing over something.

"Fine, I'll do it." The older one said, it was a males voice, a bit deep and scruffy like fine sandpaper. He disconnected the fuel line of his weapon before setting it down where nothing could catch fire, in a metal bucket in a concrete corner, before he began approaching said passed out man. Hardly made a sound in his sleep, no snoring, nothing, with the only indicator he was still alive being the slight rising and falling of his chest. The man took Dante's mask off and plugged the filter that was on it to prevent it from going to waste. Sure some time was used on it, but it could still be used.

"Oi, blin. Wake up." He said, just a usual inside voice to the sleeping man's face. No reaction.

"Come on, I know you're awake.." The stranger said, sounding a bit more teasing in a joking man

A peeved grimace grew on the man's face, giving a sigh of annoyance. "Alright man, you asked for it." He murmured, removing the padded glove on his right hand before stiffening his palm flat as a board before swiftly and harshly striking him in the face, and was thoroughly surprised when once again they reacted with nothing. The man threw his hands up before putting their glove back on, "Fuck it, I give up, let him sleep." He growled defeatedly, heading back to his post. It wasn't his job to deal with civilians, especially ones who wouldn't wake up, there was no scent of blood or visible wounds on him when he came in, so with any luck the man would be just fine.

* * *

Dante had no clue just how long he had been sleeping in that "alley", to his perspective it was though he slumped over to take a quick breather, closed his eyes and then opened them again feeling heavy and sore, caused by both his exhaustion and the equipment he carried. They didn't take his ammo, or his filters, or anything now that he thought about it. His face stung faintly though.

And his gas mask was off, prompting some internal panicking before he realized it had been placed in his hand's which clutched its visor tightly. Damn it, he and whoever else touched it smudged it all up! A frustrating thought which flowed through him as he furiously rubbed the visor with the rim of the bottom of his shirt, made of a semi-soft cloth. Come to think of it if he was heading up to the surface he should get something more than just a jacket and a shirt when it came to torso protection. Maybe a helmet of sorts too if he could find one. As he stretched his legs, they spasmed feverishly in the process for a minute before stopping, picking himself up to look around the station.

He was safe at last in Polis, the 'richest' station in the whole of the metro, the station has only survived this long because of its powerful militia, and even the lowliest bandits would never attack the station out of sheer respect for it. It was also one of the brightest stations, both literally and figuratively. The literal part of the station made itself quite clear to any outsiders, including him, who decided to keep his gas mask on with everything minus a filter. The slightly tinted visor of the gas mask provided at least some amount of protection from the lights, appearing harsh to him after months of staying in one of the more dimly lit stations.

Of course, he did look like a bit of a moron but that was a moot point, his eyes were hurting and he could care less about the few opinions of others that likely weren't directed at him seeing as how most people were involved in someone else's conversation. As he explored beyond the gate that he had fallen asleep at he had quickly reached the checkpoint and passed right through with ease, unlike Hanza controlled or Red-Line stations he didn't need much identification for entering. Funny how in the apocalypse they still tried to know everyone who walked through those gates, like it still even mattered. Going beyond the checkpoint were a bunch of closed rooms, closets of sorts made from the wire fence. Inside was nothing more than crates and bags, some empty and some full of whatever was inside them. Relatively bare and unremarkable save for the above average cleanliness of the floor below him, and a single candle was on the ground, lit and inside of a tin can, its label long gone.

Eventually, if the voices of people calling out deals weren't enough to go by, he reached the market part of the station. Some people proclaimed a sale on "Freshly caught fish!" or sometimes one could hear the soft voice coming from a booth stating "The best exchange rates in the whole Metro." What really sucked though was that he wouldn't be able to take major advantage of that seeing as how his valuable shotgun shells couldn't simply be traded for like, what, two bullets? Maybe one per three? He didn't even know the exchange rates for each bullet or shell. There were people selling clothes and some higher quality cuts of pork and fish, chicken and eggs too, and sometimes a rare fresh vegetable or two. Those were ungodly expensive, but reasonable seeing as how there was little soil that could grow anything more than mushrooms. Just how shot to hell was his pallet now? If it weren't for the occasional canned fruit or whatever the hell else that was still edible, he'd have killed himself from the sheer monotony of the food that he ate. Surprisingly enough, they at least had salt down here, which was a major plus in his book considering the lack of spices or seasonings.

There was also a bald man with blue eyes, wearing some scrounged up jeans and a relatively thick jacket who was setting up some wood cases full of guns and tools. A die press for handloading shells and casings, and what seemed to be a cube, like a mold of sorts for casting bullets. He could probably modify his shotgun if he had enough bullets for any of that shit. Which he took to counting.

He used to have forty-one shotgun shells, a molotov cocktail, four filters, four medkits.

Now he had a quarter empty molotov cocktail, five serviceable filters (maybe thirty minutes of air?) and 13 empty shells, (or more accurately 6, he couldn't pick them _all_ up during a gunfight.) and so, forty-one, subtract thirteen.

twenty-eight shotgun shells!

Wait. Shit, he would be major fucked over if he went to the service with this little amount of ammo, barely enough besiege Constantinople. Which was a weird analogy now that he thought about it, but it worked surprisingly well when it came to describing how much ammunition one had, and their opinion on it.

Still...

* * *

So, after some general bartering and some selling of his new filter, he had managed to scrounge up some twenty or so military grade bullets, plus those five he took from the redline, twenty-five!

That still wasn't a very substantial amount, the guy was asking thirty bullets for a longer barrel for his shambler, which was something he could make if he had the right tools.

Still, his true goal wasn't far now, just take a ride through Smolenskaya Arbatskaya, another station in the Metro, through some random Hanza owned station, and then he could be right on his way to investigating those odd rumor's of a gate to a lush paradise on the surface.


	8. Chapter 7

So. Finding your way up to the surface is moderately easy.

Keyword being_ moderate _because of two things, the bureaucratic nightmare of making sure your stupid Hanza ID was in order, (Or any, sort of identification for that matter), so you could enter the station, and then you had to cough up some bullets to even get on the trolley so you could get your ass to _another_ station that wasn't under Hanseatic control, where you could then check all your gear, all your filters are plugged, no pesky hair breaking the seal of your mask like the red-line during a night raid. Things like that.

And then, of course, Dante had to heed the call of nature before he decided to venture out to the surface. Because it is an absolute nightmare trying to find a safe place to go to the bathroom on the surface.

* * *

But, after all of that was said and done, he had reached the surface. Snowy and bright, visibility was suboptimal in wide areas, but the surrounding region was the bombed-out and cracked remains of Moscow. The courtyard entrance to the metro system was covered in snow and occasionally some littered bullet casings, cracks and bullet holes lined the walls like moss.

If he had grown up here, and knew the place better he would have felt something in his heart at the sight of an utterly destroyed city.  
But he was a stranger to these lands, and he would still be one long after he passed. Of course, he wasn't insensitive to the people who _did_ live here all their lives and felt a slight pang of empathy for them, seeing as how everyone in this hellish new world has lost something.

For him, it was essentially everything. In fact, he could recall those horrifying memories as he exited the station, passing by a looted corpse of a stalker that had nothing to offer him except pocket-lint and an empty medkit.

That fateful day, when the bombs dropped. His family had hopped onto the subway to explore a region of Moscow about a day before the family trip would be over, experience some food, the culture, general tourist things. They bought snacks, purchased a book that was just for him (plus it was rare enough to find a not-so-expensive book in English) and as the bombs fell they were just outside the entrance to the Metro so they could get home, or to be more accurate the place they were staying at.

Their fortune was another person's misfortune, as he could distinctly remember the sound of gunfire followed by a rumbling of masses of people, hurrying and running before a loud slam came from them shutting the metro doors, loud screaming, then silence soon after.

Had that day gone differently, they could have all been killed by the bombs. This memory was just further emblazoned in his mind as he walked past the decaying corpses of many unknown people, who would never receive a proper burial.  
Was it not for them having arrived before the bombs, even if they had made it, would they have been one of those people stuck outside as the metro and its staff could no longer process the thousands of people fleeing for safety inside the deep tunnel system?

He shuddered at the thought. Maybe his brothers had died too, the events buried deep in the recesses of his memory.

But he had one thing for certain in this world, and that was that he was alone, physically and religiously exiled because of the war.

Because of humanity's foolishness.

He had to break himself out of these thoughts before he started crying, and then tears would start staining the inside of his mask if he did. So, Dante tilted his head around corners, making sure there weren't any mutants in front of him, he took a nice stroll down memory lane in the open, and that feeling of being alone in the world could have been very easily replaced by a sneaky mutant with the feeling of being dead.

Dante was about what, ten, fifteen minutes away from the station as the crow flies. And him not wanting to waste anymore filter, hurried quickly. This is the apocalypse, not a carnival where you can walk about freely. As he walked, he made sure to occasionally scrape off any snow that might have gotten stuck in his shotgun seeing as how the ammo was exposed, he didn't want another misfire like last time, that or his ammo turning to dirt if the primer just well, stopped working. He didn't know if that would happen if his shells got wet, but he would rather play it safe than regret everything later.

* * *

He was panting, well, slightly anyways. Rather than spending another five minutes taking the long way searching around with just about a vague area of the location of the rumor, he was jumping car to car, rubble to rubble, and even just trying to climb a wall that had almost no perches and somehow succeeding (With the aid of a running start).

The downside was that while he _could_ do all of this fancy jumping and flipping, he was lacking in the endurance department. So, he was left with his arm's feeling like they would cramp up like a vice grip and his legs like wavering jelly, and just to make it worse he was down to two filters, or about ten minutes worth of air, which lead to him trying to slow his breathing down as much as possible if it helped stretch those ten minutes out somewhat.

Still, he continued walking around like a wounded dog, until the sight of what looked to be another Metro courtyard, where one would go get a ticket from a booth and use the subway systems underground. The thought of heading back to safety flickered in his mind for a minute, before he realized he couldn't go back to the Metro through there anyways.

Because there was a _Gate_, as the rumors said. There had been attacks from medieval men on certain stations, the high-quality metal that they used for armor confirmed that as much. The armor and swords and all manner of weaponry that was taken from the deceased attackers were scrapped and reused, probably for makeshift armor plating on equally handmade tanks or higher quality bullets.

Speaking of, he should get a pistol sometime, sure the damage wasn't all that great to a mutant but the sheer stopping power of the .44 Magnum rounds used in the revolvers and other weapons made it worth owning.

Correction, own any type of .44 Magnum gun someday. But the rumors were true then, the fact that that this gate-like structure existed proved it!

It was pure white and made of bricks chiseled from marble, a sloped triangle roof rested above two tall, chiseled pillars which in between them were giant, glowing lanes of solid blue crystal, a polished and cut version of that odd glowing crystal was embedded in the center of the roof like an ornament. It was in his words, holy, everything about it gave off some sort of divinity to him, and he was almost never the religious type.

But... No matter how close he got to it, the gate looked as though it was leading into nothing but a pitch black empty void. Something was blocking the contents of the gate from being viewed. He knew that he _should_ be able to see behind the gate, he could see rays of light bleeding into the Metro from here through the mostly undamaged panes of glass. A curious little thought wormed it's way into his mind, what if he were to go through that marble gateway? What was he to lose? The like, two buddies he met at a bar over a cup of shroom vodka? That had caused him to lose some of his bullets once.

If there was a just a pitch-black void at the end, oh well, for science!

Plus it wasn't like there was an alternative unless he wanted to take another ten-minute sprint and start coughing up blood in his mask from overexerting himself, so that was out of the option, and the only other one was confirmed choking to death on poisonous air when his filters ran out.

So, with a loud, triumphant "Fuck it!" from Dante, he marched onwards to the gate and walked continuously in the pitch-black corridor of the gate, waiting for something to show up at the end of the tunnel.

And immediately regretted it.


End file.
